More Changes

I haven't been able to calm down for two days. It's a restless sort of terrified feeling that is fueled by many different things. It's hard to even know where to begin, but I need to say something.

I spent a good deal of time thinking of a way to move by September, and my opportunity presented itself yesterday morning, when a sublet became available in my future city. The plan was to move on my own, start working, and wait it out until we could move to a larger place together. It wasn't a definite plan because, let's face it, nothing can be these days. But it was enough of a direction for me. I seized the opportunity. Once the guarantor paperwork is filled out and I pay the deposit next Friday, it's finalized. But I spent all day agonizing because it seems that we will be moving separately at first. I suppose it makes more sense to take it slow, and being in the same town will definitely make things easier, but it's still an impossible feeling to completely control. I want to jump back into things like before. I want everything to be right again so desperately. Except I want to do things better, which means that we can't just jump into things and expect everything to be okay. It's going to be slow at first. It's going to be a rebuilding of the trust that had been broken. It's going to be learning to love each other all over again and in new and different ways. And that is kind of exciting. But it's hard when you just want that comfortable life that you had before--the falling asleep together every night, the waking up with the one you love right beside you, the always being able to look forward to seeing his face at the end of the day. And the little things like watching TV together, reading side-by-side, talking about the future, cuddling, being cute in an almost disgusting way, having weekend adventures. I miss all of that as well.

I skipped over a lot of things, but you get the general idea. I'm moving. I'm moving to a brand new place, all on my own, and I've never done that before. At least in Annapolis, I knew my roommate. This time, I don't know the two people with whom I'll be sharing the apartment. I do have a private bathroom, and the place has amenities out the ass, but it's still terrifying. I know this is a step forward for me. But I'm so scared, and I feel like crying all the time lately. I am torn inside because I know what I want, and I can't have it, at least not yet, and I have to make this decision. I know it's the right thing to do to get ahead, and it's also the right thing to do to be able to work on our relationship, but it still feels overwhelming. I keep wondering if these feelings are normal. I'm excited, for sure. But today I've been a wreck. I couldn't sleep at all last night, and my nap earlier today didn't last nearly long enough. I want the pain in my stomach to finally go away. It started to feel like it would when I would be waiting for him. It's not like there is that much of a difference between my situation here and the one I will be moving to, with respect to the relationship. The distance will no longer be a factor. But not being able to see his face every night before bed, when he is right there in the same town--that's going to be brutal.

But ultimately, this move is about moving forward on more than one front. It may not be an ideal situation, but it is still a step in the right direction in terms of our relationship. But that's not the only important thing I'm taking care of by doing this. I'm taking the leap so I can find a job that has the potential for professional growth, which may take some time, but a humiliating/menial job in a city with people I know and closer to so many people I love is better than one in an area where I feel isolated almost all the time. Being able to control my own space, for the most part, will also be a huge relief. This is also an important step because I need to keep in the practice of taking care of my own affairs. I haven't been cooking as much here, which bothers me, because I'm usually so much better about what I put into my body, but I am trying not to be too critical of myself. It's a chance for me to start functioning in the real world again. It's terrifying. I'm afraid of failing, of course. I'm confident. I'm actually more confident than I have ever been about my own abilities. But I cannot shake the fear of the unknown and the anxiety that comes with knowing that there is still a chance that despite all my best efforts, I will fail again.

I feel like I need continual reassurance that I'm doing the right thing. I may be doing this on my own, but that doesn't mean I won't need some sort of support. I'm scared of being in a new place all on my own. I don't know who wouldn't be. I wish I weren't doing this alone. And I may not be for long. But that doesn't mean that I can't. So even when I have doubts, I have to trust that I am going to be okay, no matter what happens.

It's been over a month, and I've survived. I've overcome obstacles that used to seem insurmountable. Normally, when I don't sleep, I don't function well at all the next day. I started panicking when I knew I wasn't going to be able to fall asleep. I had been awake for nearly 24 hours and still had an 8-hour shift plus the journey home to endure. I fought with myself quite a bit. I dreaded going to work. I feared I would not last without having a meltdown. I feared that it would all just be too much. I didn't want to continue feeling like I did. I just wanted to run away by sleeping in. But I went. I somehow forced myself to deal with the situation. I had to tell myself I was doing this for a reason, no matter how miserable the job is or how shitty I feel. I have a goal, and I need the money to achieve that goal. I have a responsibility to see this through. And I did it. I worked the whole day without having any trouble, other than feeling ridiculously tired. The nap this afternoon,though short, did feel pretty amazing after that.

Also, it's been over a month, and I haven't had a meltdown. I haven't screamed. There's been a lot of crying and a lot of intense emotional pain that has caused physical pain. The anxiety is constant, unfortunately. Maybe it's more to do with the disconnect between where I want to be and where I am. I'm not sure.  But I'm coping. I'm learning to live with these feelings, which are pretty intense at times. I feel like that's an understatement. But you get the point. I've had so much shit happen to me emotionally over the past month and a half, and I haven't broken down. A few months ago, just being in the same room with other people would have sent me over the edge. Being late for an appointment would have completely destroyed my entire day, and I'd spend the whole rest of the night crying in bed, unable to move. I don't know how that person ever came to be. I knew the whole time that I wasn't myself. But I couldn't stop anything from happening.

Sometimes I still have some of those same feelings, but I'm in control this time. At some point, I will write in depth about how I felt during those months. I know there are a ton of posts from that time, but being able to analyze it from the other side might offer more insight into just how debilitating my condition had become. But I'm not up for that right now.

I guess I should finally get to what made me want to write in the first place. Walking over to my desk to take some medicine, I got hit with the realization of how different everything is right now. In my mind flashed images of our old bed, followed immediately by images of this one. Blue sheets versus red sheets. Alive versus eerily quiet. Even the lighting makes the place feel different. I just look at myself and all of my things and can't believe we aren't in the place where I felt like we belonged. It really was home. And for some reason, this doesn't have that feeling anymore. It's always going to be home. It's always going to be a loving, welcoming place. But it's a different kind of feeling. It's a home that I can still be a part of, but it's not the same as the home you have helped to create. And I really don't think my new apartment is going to totally feel like home either. I'm scared of that empty feeling following me, which has a lot more to do with being alone, but you never know what can happen. I will do my best to make the place my own. I had more to say but I got lost in thought and it disappeared.

I may consider anxiety medication again. But for now, I can handle this, as unpleasant as it feels most of the time. I struggle with this because part of me feels that I shouldn't have to feel like this all the time if there is a solution. But side effects are a real problem for me, as I have learned, and I just don't know if I am ready to take that risk again, especially because your typical anxiety meds don't do anything for me. Maybe the anxiety will resolve itself when my situation improves. It's wishful thinking more than anything, but hoping won't kill me.

I will be okay. I am doing the right thing. This is a step forward on all fronts. I won't give up.

THIS IS FICTION, AGAIN. NO TITLE YET

***NOTE***
This is a work of FICTION, though it is based on some events that happened in real life. I wanted to play with the scenario in a creative way. Some of these things happened. Some did not. Please do not make assumptions about which ones are which. Treat this ENTIRELY as a work of FICTION, and try to appreciate it as such. Thank you. Also, I get that it's corny and hastily written. That wasn't the point of the exercise. So back off. :P
***********

He sat with a fistful of shattered glass and broken promises, smoking the last of a pack of cigarettes he found a few hours before realizing he had no choice but to question his own sanity over the last several months and possibly years. He still considered himself a scientist, even though he hadn't seen the inside of a lab in about as long as he had ever worked in one. But he never mentioned this. When people asked him what he did for a living, he usually avoided eye contact and tried to delay responding with "nothing" for as long as he could. And every time he had to answer the question, another piece of him plummeted to the Earth, like a meteorite or confetti or that dead body in the movie Con-Air.

He wondered now whether that had anything to do with his current situation, but for all he knew, the broken glass he left behind could have been the work of a would-be burglar he had caught in the act, and the inevitable struggle would have rendered him a hero instead of the mental patient he learned to define himself as. If only he could remember how or why it started, he might be able to convince himself that his mind had a perfectly rational and reasonable explanation for choosing to abandon him on the most important night of his life. As he choked on the toxins making their way into his respiratory system, he glanced down at the white bracelet on his wrist. Some part of him believed that he would never be able to remove his ivory letter--not until he solved the mystery of what happened on the 5th of July.

The police told Benjamin that his husband found him lying in a pile of the collected remains of every glass surface in the apartment--from the TV to the coffee table to the vase that held the flame-colored roses meant to cheer him up on a particularly lousy summer afternoon. He didn't remember much of that conversation, or the one where his husband threw him out of the house for good without so much as a pair of shoes or a can of soup. Ben couldn't blame him. He cooperated as much as anyone could have with police officers with an apparent moral obligation to contribute to the degeneration of what little sanity or emotional stability he still had tucked away inside of him. He didn't know there were so many ways to call someone worthless in such a short amount of time. They must have a training on that at the academy, he thought. However, he refrained from making any comment at all because he, quite wisely, assumed that a mental institution was a far better place than prison for someone like him.

He survived his stay in the psych ward by writing letters to his husband--letters he could never send thanks to a hastily-filed restraining order that prevented him from making any contact whatsoever or calling 67 Hadley Street his home ever again. He wrote the letters mostly as a way to process his own feelings. The confinement drove him crazy, which sounds a little ironic considering the nature of the facility, but Ben wasn't the kind of man that liked to sit still. He was an avid runner, cyclist, weightlifter, and recreational athlete that had once had quite a promising future in athletics, until he decided to stop pretending to be a woman some years beforehand.

So he kept his pen moving when his body could not. He wrote until the cuts on his hands would start to bleed. And then he just kept writing, not seeing the use in clearing away the blood running down his fingers and pooling at the very point where pen met paper. Every word was still visible behind its rust-colored pond. The darkest ones seemed to be the most real.

You'd think that there would be more to Ben's story in the hospital, but in truth, he was tired of being on medication for problems he wasn't even sure were real anymore. He had begun to question his own reality in the weeks prior to the incident. He felt less and less like himself until his mind must have just let go completely. This was the best explanation he could come up with, and eventually, the doctors stopped trying to force the pills down his throat, and after some more time, they stopped coming to his room altogether. He was on his own, and he had realized that from the beginning. When he was no longer afraid of the withdrawal symptoms and could stop replaying his fantasy of blowing his brain matter into a Rorschach mural on the bathroom wall, he signed himself out of the hospital.

Two hours later, he stood 51 feet away from the very bottom step of house number 67, where he could still hear his 3-month-old puppy crying from behind the red brick walls. He knew he should have walked away at that point, but the thought of living without his dog--even on the streets of East Cleveland with winter approaching--was another razor-sharp shard of broken plasma TV resting ever so gently on his brainstem, having already pierced the skin, just waiting for the right moment, perhaps a twitch of panic, to make contact with the place that made him breathe. These were his thoughts, not mine, by the way. That's just the way he was. Everything was either dramatic or non-existent. No wonder.

At 33 feet, he saw his husband's car--or ex-husband's, maybe, since he wasn't really sure what the situation meant, though he probably should have been smart enough to figure that out, being a brilliant biologist and all. It was too late to run. He had already been seen, and fear of getting flattened by an F-350 with the redneck pride flag printed across its back window urged him to move even closer to the man who was more likely to have him arrested with each additional foot he advanced.

"You shouldn't be here."
"I live here..."
"Not anymore you don't."
"I just need some things."
"You can have your shoes. But you can't come inside."
"I...I can't leave. Please talk to me."
"I have nothing to say to you. Ever again."
"I just...Baby, please. I can't. Please talk to me. I can't do this."
"I don't care where you go. That's up to you. But you cannot stay here."

He didn't know what else to say. His mind was stuck in an infinite loop of can't-won't-scream-cry-panic. His knees forgot what they were designed to do, and he hit the ground hard, catching himself on more fractured glass than pavement, reopening wounds he thought were well on their way to healing. He lifted his hand to see that he had tiny pieces of mirror embedded in his palm, and at that moment more than any other, as his husband walked past him into the house without another syllable, he felt like eating his own reflection. One shard at a time.

He sat and allowed himself to bleed and cry until his body had had enough of these things, and around the same time, the screen-door skin of the house seemed to rupture, spewing out crimson bags of shoes, medicines, clothes, and the inevitable glitter-glass that covered everything on the property, inside and out.

Blood-red hands, blood-red bags, and blood-red eyes walked up the street, attached to a man whose body and mind should have stopped betraying him years before, if life were to be fair in any fucking way. (Again, his words. Not mine. Maybe he should've written this instead.) He didn't know what to do, where to go, or when he would ever find a place to call home again. But, for whatever reason, he walked. It might have been pure instinct at that point, his neocortex having shut down almost completely for the second time in an all-too-brief-yet-never-ending span of time. But had he not taken those first zombie-like shuffles away from his past, he would have never tripped over the chance to find his future.

Benjamin continued to bleed for a long time after that. I'm told that he and his husband are back together again and that they have a 3-year-old daughter named Annabelle. Ben's hands are permanently scarred, not only because of the initial disaster and the subsequent reinjury, but because, for a long time, Ben picked at his wounds until they bled just as fiercely as they did that very first night. He did this every day for quite some time, often without realizing it. And the day he stopped ripping away scab after scab was the day his husband finally called.

Tears fell to the pages of Ben's tattered journal as he listened to the song to which they danced on the night of their wedding, and before he hung up the phone--on what would be the anniversary of the death of their old life together--his husband didn't ask Ben to come home. He said that it was time for both of them to go home.

Sixty-seven minutes later, you could hear the makeup sex two blocks over. (What's another few dozen kids in therapy, right?) It was hot and sweaty and filled with all the best kinds of screaming and way too many different kinds of crying. And that's being discreet. I could have also told you about the biting and the scratching and the broken headboard and the various bodily fluids that ended up defying gravity in the end.

Marcus looked at the scars all over his partner's hands (and body), following the trail from one to the next with his lips, like he was sucking the venom out of a lethal snake bite.

"Your scars make you so much more beautiful," he said to Ben.

Ben smiled with tears forming in the corners of eyes that seemed to have aged a dozen years since the last time they shared a bed together. He spoke softly but with more conviction than he could ever remember: "So do yours. I'm just sorry that I had to be the one to give them to you."

"You never have to be sorry, Ben. I don't blame you for what happened. And it's like we said: We're both more beautiful for having these marks, whether they have formed on the body or the soul. I wouldn't trade these scars for anything." As he said these last words, he moved his hand right towards his partner's heart, just above the place where a new scar would one day form. And he knew he would love that one too.

"Do you really mean that? I mean, you know my mind wasn't in the right place when it happened, but that doesn't mean I am not responsible for so, so much pain in your life...And I can't promise that I won't cause you more pain."

Marcus paused for a long time after that. He breathed slowly, never breaking eye contact with the man whose stormy seas had made him such a well-conditioned sailor. "I never expected you not to cause me pain. That's kind of a given with marriage. But you were gone for a long time--long before your episode or whatever we want to call it now. I lost the man I married, for whatever reason, to a shell of a person that needed life support in a way that I just couldn't provide. It was killing me too, and saying goodbye felt like they pulled the plug on me instead. I felt like I said goodbye over and over again every single night when I had to crawl into this bed with nothing but an empty space next to me...It never stopped smelling like you."

"What made it stop?"
"What do you mean, Ben?"
"I mean, like, how did you know when you stopped having to say goodbye? How did you--"
"How did I know the man I married had finally come back to me?"
"Well...yeah."
"You found it again."
"Found what?"
"Your smile."

A Different Response

Today happened, and sometimes, that's as much as I can say. I still feel empty a lot of the time, but that doesn't prevent me from doing what I need to do in order to better myself and my circumstances. I learned that today when I encountered a pretty frustrating situation at my intake appointment.

My appointment was scheduled for 1:00 PM, but I didn't speak with anyone until 2:00 PM. The PA in charge of my intake session was not exactly helpful, and by that, I mean that he explained nothing whatsoever of the services they offered, didn't ask questions about my situation, and seemed to stop listening the moment I mentioned I wasn't interested in pursuing medication options at this time. From my past experience, intake sessions generally last well over an hour, as the interviewers typically try to gauge your needs and match you with an appropriate provider or program. I wasn't even in that man's office ten minutes before he sent me down the hall to someone else to fill out a pile of forms. I was extremely uncomfortable, but halfway through signing things, I had had enough. I stopped the woman in charge of working on my file "update", which was actually not what was supposed to be happening at all since I had never been there before. I told her that I was feeling pretty uncomfortable with signing forms and being pushed through the process without being offered any explanations or options and without discussing a plan for care. She apologized, which is when she realized that I had been sent to the wrong place, and we eventually got together with the woman who was assigned to be my therapist. Because I had chosen this route, I was able to get an appointment much sooner. Had I not said anything, my first session would not have been until September. The plan is to meet that day and discuss further treatment options. In addition to all of this chaos, the delay caused me to be late to an interview I had scheduled for 2:45 PM. I simply called ahead, had my mom bring my suit, changed in the car, and went about the interview without a problem.

Two weeks ago, I never would have been able to do any of these things. My day would have been ruined, and I would have blindly followed the instructions of people I knew weren't doing their jobs appropriately. I wouldn't have been able to compose myself enough to tackle an interview. I wouldn't have even been able to summon up the courage to make the phone call saying I was going to be late. I'm nearly crying now realizing that things really are changing. I am myself again, and I am getting better at being that every day. Part of me is so happy about this. The other part is in so much pain because it realizes that, no matter how much progress I make in a short amount of time, I cannot simply return to the life I had before when I feel better. It will take time for the hurt and fear I have caused to be resolved. It will take time, and that is so hard to handle right now. I miss him all the time. I am happy with the person I am becoming. I am not depressed about my life. I feel confident and capable. But I can't shake that feeling of emptiness. Because I love him--because we really do love each other--this isn't the kind of thing that is going to stop hurting until we are finally both okay enough to reunite. Managing these feelings of pain and loneliness is the most difficult part of this by far. Everything else is coming back to me. Living with purpose is apparently a lot like riding a bike. You never really forget how to love yourself.

The only thing I can do is work on myself and allow time to heal these wounds. I know I am ready, but it will take time for others to believe in me as much as I do. It will take time for that trust to be rebuilt. And it will take time for him to get where he needs to be as well. And that's something I didn't think much about until we talked earlier tonight. I always thought he was doing alright, maybe because I was doing so poorly in comparison. But, in reality, we were both living co-dependently. We weren't functioning well as individuals. Hearing him admit that he was having some problems too helped me to realize that I am not to blame for everything that happens. I'm just so glad that he is going to be focusing on himself now too. And being able to be there for one another, even this far apart, is going to be so important.

It's getting to be that time of night where I feel the pain more intensely than at any other time. I've been trying to get in touch with some old friends from the area, but people are pretty busy these days, and others just haven't responded at all or will be partaking in activities that aren't in my best interests right now. I may be a little more on my own than I imagined, and that is hard too. But I have to stay focused even when loneliness tries to overwhelm me. I am here for a reason, and I won't let anything else get in the way anymore. This is so important to me. This is the most important time in my life and the most critical thing I have ever undertaken, for so many reasons. This is the start of something so much bigger and better, and once we are able to be confident in our own lives, the rest will fall into place. I'm pretty impatient, but I am learning to handle that too. I am learning to accept that this is the way that this must be done. I will keep believing, even when it feels impossible. I won't give up.

Between Then and Now

It hasn't even been a full two weeks, but I have like months have gone by given how much different everything seems, within my own mind and without. I left the hospital on Sunday wearing the same shorts I had been the night everything happened, though they did get washed once during that period of time, thank God. I remember being in such a daze walking outdoors for the first time in more than a week. I don't think I was really able to feel anything at that point. The car ride back to Lawrenceville was longer than I expected it to be. Whether that had more to do with our hitting every red light between McKeesport and the city or the time dilation caused by severe emotional experiences, I can't be certain.

My parents got out of the car, and I expected to sit there while they gathered what they could of my belongings. I was about to start crying because I heard my puppy barking all the way inside the house, but before a single tear could fall, my mother told me to come outside. I didn't know what to do at first. I stepped out cautiously, terrified to move too suddenly. We were about ten feet from one another, but in those first few seconds, the distance seemed much greater. Then he spoke. He told me, "It's okay," but it took more than once for me to understand what was actually going on. We hugged for a long time, but not long enough for me. In that moment, I never wanted to let go. It took everything not to fall to the ground crying. I feel like that's the moment everything really changed inside me. I almost cried when not an hour later I was able to make him hunch over with laughter. It felt so good to hear that again.

Things were a lot clearer a few days ago than they are now. I'm struggling with putting all the events of the past few days together in a coherent, concise way. Even if things are a bit fragmented, it's important that I at least make this effort.

We tried to delay leaving as long as possibly, probably not consciously. It felt like there were so many things that simultaneously needed to be said and never had to . The dogs nearly all fell over when they finally saw me. Apparently, Bam-Bam had escaped three times trying to find me over that week.

The house seemed the same but somehow not at all. It felt further away from me too, as a physical place. But I could still sense the pain and fear that I caused. It was hard to look at the place I had learned to call home, knowing that it could never be that for me again. It was also very hard to look at a casserole dish full of rhinestones that had been mixed together. He stopped to pull out several pieces of broken glass before setting the tray back down. We hugged so many more times. And it was harder and harder to let go each time.

I didn't want to say this at all, but maybe it is important that I do. The thing that hurt most about the whole encounter was seeing him without his ring. I know he noticed that I was still wearing mine. I'm not sure what he thought about that, and perhaps I'll never know.

"I love you. And I am not angry. I don't blame you for anything that happened." Those were the words that started a conversation that has been going on for days, most of the time not needing any words at all to keep it going. Those words and countless instances of both of us repeating "it's okay" to one another. And I still have to tell myself that every day.

I had such a hard time sleeping Sunday night. I couldn't think about anything else, so I started typing up the letters I had been writing to him in the hospital, which were half letter and half journal entry, give or take a few percentage points. They were long, and in addition to helping me feel deeply connected, they reminded me of why I needed to be where I am now. They reminded me that I needed to view this as a positive step forward for both of us.

It was around four in the morning when I got out of bed, after lying there for several hours with Comedy Central on in the background. I grabbed my phone to listen to a song that hadn't left my mind all week, and I noticed I had gotten a response to my message about 25 minutes previous to that. I opened up the message and found screenshots of the lyrics to the song I was just about to listen to, and I collapsed into my bed again. There were a few more messages shared that night, but it still took me so long to fall asleep. It was well past light outside before my body finally gave in.

Yesterday was my first full day back here, and I spent most of it distracting myself with applying for jobs. I listened to music and continued to cry when I wasn't doing that. We FaceTimed for about half an hour, and the image was so clear that I felt like I was right there with him. I'm not sure whether that made it easier or harder to handle. Several times during the conversation, I broke down. I saw how tired he looked. I saw how much this has been hurting him too. I asked if he were going to talk to someone as well, and it made me happy to hear when he answered in the affirmative. We were able to laugh at times. But we both seemed to look at each other knowing that things were going to get a lot harder before getting easier. But I also saw in his face the willingness to believe in the power of love to survive anything. And I have never before found another person with that much faith or strength. I cried for a little while after we finally hung up, after we both realized that we needed to get out and do things before we got stuck in bed all night just thinking and crying. After I got up, I listened to music and continued to write.

My efforts yesterday seemed to pay off today when I woke up to four phone calls about job opportunities. I had to decline one of them because there is no way for me to make the hour commute each way on my own. I have another interview tomorrow, and I am waiting for the other two to continue playing phone tag with me. I also have my intake appointment at CCS tomorrow, the agency for which I used to work during the 2013/2014 school year. I had an easier time keeping myself busy today. I went to a tabata boot camp workout this evening, and though my back started to bother me because I haven't done anything with it in almost two weeks, I was able to push through about 75% of it. I know I will be fine in a few days. I'm planning on getting a chest/upper back workout in tonight as well. It actually felt good to be around the old studio again. I smiled and laughed with people for the first time in almost two weeks. They made me feel like everything was going to be okay--like I was in the right place for the time being. That feeling has been hard to maintain since leaving the studio a few hours ago, but I'll hopefully get a chance to renew it when I go back tomorrow night.

It's dark now, and my head hurts from all the crying I've done today too. But I believe in myself. I believe in us. And my faith in so many things has been restored. I feel like the same person that moved out to Pittsburgh last spring. I feel like the fog has been lifted. I feel like I have a sense of purpose again. I feel ambitious and hopeful. I am determined. And I am able to control the negative thoughts that creep in on me throughout the day. I am able to take action when I need to in order to prevent myself from spiraling downward. I feel like I'm finally in the driver's seat again. I'm medication-free for the first time in nearly a year, and I feel more like myself than I have in nearly just as long.

I could tell things were finally going right again when I got out of bed, looked at my phone, took a few minutes to compose myself, and immediately called all four potential employers back. I didn't think about how scared I was. I didn't get overwhelmed. I just did what I needed to do. I fell back into bed to cry a few times today, but I didn't hang out there and dwell on my misery. I forced myself to keep moving. I reminded myself again of why I am here. I reminded myself why this is so important. And though it hasn't been easy, I have been surviving. I have been doing things for myself, and I even cleaned our whole kitchen because I just couldn't take shit being EVERYWHERE in a place that I would be calling my home for the next however-long. (This isn't a typical thing here, but we just got our hot water fixed today, and my mother has a thing about doing dishes if the water is not scalding hot.)

I'm not always okay. Being apart is painful, and it will keep being painful. But I have a responsibility to take care of myself. Part of being a functional adult is learning how to deal with pain and delay gratification, learning how to acknowledge and feel the pain without letting it break you or take control of your every behavior. And I think I've been doing pretty well with that. I'm excited to see just how much more I really am able to handle in the coming weeks. I am so ready to be myself again. I AM being myself again. I just wish more people were able to see that in action. They will, in time. Right now, I'm just really proud of myself.

I am proud of myself for being able to make the decision to go back to the hospital on my own. I am proud of myself for making the decision to come back to Larksville to deal with my mental health needs. I am proud of myself for making the commitment to see this through no matter what. I'm so proud that I can say I am the kind of person that will never give up. I am so proud to be able to say that I am who I am and that I have been through all that I have. I am proud of my own story, finally and forever. My life is a fucking miracle. I am so lucky to be right where I am, to have all that I do, and to be loved the way that I am. I will not take this opportunity for granted. I will not waste my time in making sure that I will be prepared to live the rest of my life the way I want to live it. And I will never be ashamed of having to step backwards in order to take care of myself.

Sometimes it takes hitting the absolute bottom for you to realize how insignificant your previous pain is in comparison. Sometimes it takes getting to that point in order for you to realize what others have been telling you all along. Everything seems to have clicked recently. And I am running with it. I'm not afraid. That's not always true, but the key is that I am able to act in spite of my fear. I am not an easy person to break. This much I have learned.

Self-Acceptance Exercise.

While in the hospital last week, I found a page in one of the workbooks that was an exercise in self-acceptance. You were required to finish the sentence as quickly as possible, even if it didn't always make sense or some of your answers seemed to be in conflict. Here's how that went:

It's not easy for me to be self-accepting when I: fail.

It's not easy for me to admit that: the past cannot be changed.

One of my emotions I have trouble accepting is: depression.

One of the thoughts I tend to push out of my mind is: the thought of hurting myself.

One of the things about my body I have trouble accepting is: that I am small.

If I were more accepting of my body: I would try harder.

If I were more accepting of the things I have done: I would not be as depressed.

If I were accepting of my feelings: I could move on.

If I were more honest about my wants and needs: I could have them met.

The scary thing about being self-accepting is: knowing your limitations.

If other people saw me being more self-accepting: they would like me more.

The good thing about being self-accepting might be: I could finally become independent.

I am becoming aware of: my own abilities and shortcomings.

I am beginning to feel: somewhat better and more hopeful.

As I learn to stop denying my experiences: I make room for new ones.

As I breathe deeply and allow myself to experience self-acceptance: I can let things be.

I decided to try the same exercise again tonight, a week removed from doing it while an inpatient at UPMC McKeesport. The results are interesting to me.

It's not easy for me to be self-accepting when I: am afraid.

It's not easy for me to admit that: things might need to be this way.

One of my emotions I have trouble accepting is: fear.

One of the thoughts I tend to push out of my mind is: that I can't do this.

One of the things about my body I have trouble accepting is: my hair loss.

If I were more accepting of my body: I would appear more confident.

If I were more accepting of the things I have done: I could move on.

If I were accepting of my feelings: I would believe in myself.

If I were more honest about my wants and needs: People would be able to help me get them fulfilled.

The scary thing about being self-accepting is: being alone with your flaws.

If other people saw me being more self-accepting: they would give me a chance.

The good thing about being self-accepting might be: that I can finally grow from my mistakes.

I am becoming aware of: how possible this is.

I am beginning to feel: alive.

As I learn to stop denying my experiences: I see reality more clearly.

As I breathe deeply and allow myself to experience self-acceptance: I feel ready to keep going.

Moving Forward on this Holiday

I suppose the best time for me to try to write about this is when I am slightly intoxicated since I can't seem to get any words out when I am completely sober. Tonight has been interesting to say the least.

I went to the gym, as is the usual case for me on any given day, though I have had a few rough patches the last few weeks where I have failed to move from bed for several days at a time. Anyway, today was the fourth of July, which was fine when I was in the gym imagining the visual displays that corresponded with the multitude of sounds I heard throughout the evening while working out. But as the night wore on, I couldn't ignore the history the day and I had shared. Instead of waiting downtown with thousands of drunk and disorderly citizens, I opted not to catch my bus home and walk down to Cruze to see my fiance and my friends, hoping to have a long night of fun with them before turning in and trying to resume normal life. But he brought it up before I got the chance to. He wanted to go have fun without me, which normally is not a problem,  but today, in addition to being one of the worst personal days I experience as a general rule, is also a day where I had struggled to even get out of bed in the morning. I know I don't have very many friends. The last thing I want to hear is that you want to go out with all of our mutual friends to have fun while I sit at home and do nothing but contemplate my own misery. I would have been perfectly fine with going out separate ways to have fun tonight, but even that was a problem for some reason. Every decision I made seemed to be inadequate and childish to you. You say that you don't want to take care of me, and when I tell you that you don't have to, you refuse to listen to me and insist that what I am saying is crazy and out of line. I feel like I can never win. I feel like you think I am stupid. Or at least you treat me that way a lot of the time. If you treat me like I am incapable of making my own choices, how will I ever know which choices result in the best outcomes? I love you more than anything. I want you to know how much I really do love you and want you to experience all the pleasure you can in this world. But I also want you to know that I need to experience that too, and it isn't always convenient for me. Sometimes I feel connected to people, and sometimes I do not. Sometimes I understand the social implications of a situation, and sometimes I do not. But the point is that I try. And that there are real people involved in my trying. And I really do need help in figuring out what the fuck is going on. No matter how smart I am, no matter how clever or creative I am, no matter how charismatic I may seem to the untrained ear or eye, I am still at an extreme disadvantage. I am AUTISTIC. I do not understand many of the things that you take for granted about human relationships. And you may think I am stupid for this, but I assure you I am not. My brain is actually pretty amazing. I can read four times faster than the average person. I have an impeccable short term memory. I have a natural gift for writing, even though I am a terrible public speaker. I feel emotions far more intensely than most people do. My brain is constantly working overtime, trying to process every little detail about every little thing that crosses the path of my consciousness. It's fucking exhausting. I want to turn it off sometimes, but I just can't. I barely have time to breathe. But still I am viewed as selfish because tonight, it just so happened that I was able to be okay at the same time that my partner wanted to do something in public with friends, and he wanted nothing to do with me. I understand needing alone time. That is why I suggested going to a different after-hours bar than the one you had planned on, but still, you thought that was a bad idea for me. You screamed at me for that too. I have the ability to make my own decisions. I am not a child, and if I want to drunk by myself in an after-hours club, I have every right to do so without judgment from anyone else. If you get to do it, than I do too. It does not matter what medication I am on. What matters is the choice I myself have made. I am not a child, I repeat. I understand the consequences of my actions. If you want to go drink by yourself for a night, I should have the same right to do so.

I am not mad. I love you. I just wish you could actually see things from my perspective. I am not trying to deprive you of your alone time. I merely wanted you to see what that looks like to someone who is always alone and who very rarely gets to experience what it is like to be amongst a group of people who believe the same things and are in the same mindset to celebrate. You deserve your own time just as much as anyone. But I still deserve the chance to explain to you how that can sometimes conflict with my needs. Even so, this conflict is perfectly okay. That's bound to happen in relationships. What is not okay is trying to control another person because you think that his or her cognitive disability makes him or her incapable of making adult choices. As for me--and me alone--I will tell you firsthand if I can or can't make a decision. This is just how I am.

I only wanted to go out tonight because I wanted to be with friends and enjoy the holiday like others before me have enjoyed it. I wanted to create new memories of the fourth of July because for the past ten years, I have had to deal with nothing but pain and heartbreak. I wanted to move forward and for once enjoy the occasion. I thought waiting until my boyfriend and I were alone at the bar would be a good time, but he thought it would be a good time to tell me that he needed space from me. I don't blame him for this. Everyone deserves his or her own personal space, especially when one works in a bar. But I thought he would be more understanding of my needs in the same situation. I guess I never explained how I felt in the first place. That may have something to do with it.

The truth is that I do not get subtleties. I am frequently the last person to get a joke, I may not understand exactly when you want me to hold you or tell you everything is going to be okay. I often don't get subtle sarcasm, though I can dish it better than most. You may think that I am brilliant or incredibly creative, but there are things that I will never understand. Basic conversation is one of them. I don't know what to say to people. I don't know how to maintain relationships or be close with others. I just know how to exchange information factually and sometimes ironically, I have the same emotions as neurotypical people, but I feel them far more intensely. I'm always at a level 10. I know I am not making much sense right now, but I do hope that someone eventually learns that this thought process is unique. That I am not like others. And that that is okay. We all arrive at our respective destinations at the appropriate times. Please understand this as you go about your day.

I am autistic. I may not have common sense, but I can work with any functional MRI machine and tell you which parts of the brain are more or less active in a given scenario. I can also tell you thousands of bits of seemingly useless information, but none of that seems to matter because I am ultimately a writer. I can't speak for shit. I stutter and mumble and cry into corners when I have to make a vocal statement. But I can write. I can make you feel with a few keystrokes here or there. And this is how I plan to make my truer scientific presence felt. I have not given up on myself. I have not given up on the true medium of science. I haven't even given up on humanity. Please try to understand me as we move forward in our journey. There is so much more we need to learn. I am ready and willing to progress. Are you?

June 2, 2015

Today was another mostly useless day for me. I couldn't bring myself to function in any way until almost 5:30, and even after that, I wasn't much better. I'm upset because I am tired of feeling this way, but it's made worse by the fact that I've known this medication hasn't been working for months, and my psychiatrist decided it made sense to only see me once every four months when I expressed concerns to him at our very first meeting. I missed my therapy appointment today as well, but I don't really get anything out of those sessions. Maybe I just haven't been seeing her long enough. I'm not sure what I'm really supposed to take away or when I am supposed to start feeling something--something other than misery or terror.

I'm overwhelmed all the time, and increasingly so. A few years ago, I wouldn't have had a care in the world with the amount of responsibilities I have now, but I can barely function from day to day. I'm upset that this is where I am at nearly 27.

My priorities are changing. I'm taking a step back from drag, with a few shows here and there just to keep some money in my personal account, and I'm trying to move forward with my real life. I've been hiding behind this pretend person for way too long. The immediate satisfaction may be greater, but I know there are things more important to me that I've neglected.

I saw my brother for the first time since he was released in February. I really enjoyed myself this weekend, though there were a few awkward moments. I miss him--and my parents--already. They seem to be functioning just fine, which is great. The problem is that I am starting to feel like I used to. I feel like I just don't fit in, like there's no place for me anymore.

I still feel useless. But I am hopeful. I got two calls today about personal training jobs, but I missed them because I couldn't talk or get out of bed. They both said they would call back tomorrow.

The rest of my thoughts don't seem to want to surface right now.

Missing Happy

It's hard to keep a positive spirit when, on your average day, it feels like you are being incrementally and slowly suffocated by a viscous black ooze--like melted asphalt stuck to the bottom of your shoe on a scorching summer day. On the worst days, you can feel it filling your lungs, hardening in your stomach. Trapping you inside. But you still have to keep going. You never know why. Maybe it's like drowning: We struggle to breathe not by choice but by instinct.

On better days, like today, I sit somewhere between misery and anhedonia. 

I'm going through the motions, but I don't feel like I'm really here. Everything, my whole being included, has lost its purpose. My life in is present state has no meaning, and trying to create meaning has been the biggest challenge of the last several months. I feel more trapped than ever. I feel more hopeless than I ever imagined I would. Failure, missed opportunities, stories about what might have been, wasted potential--these are the words whose images torment me all day and night. My heart never stops racing. I never get a break. And it feels like I never will. 

People keep telling me the same things. They say that I need a better attitude, which is probably true, but I've grown too cynical for that to come comfortably or easily. I'm suspicious of every near-good feeling I have, for an actual good feeling is hard to come by these days. I'm not sure I remember what that's like, though less than a year ago, I certainly knew. People also say that things will get better, that something has to work out eventually, and on and on. But I also know from experience that things don't change unless you make them change, and not every story has a happy ending. If life were fair, and we were compensated adequately for the trials we have endured, my suffering would have ended a long time ago. I'm not naive enough to believe that luck will be on my side. I seem to be the only one who understands that the longer this goes on, the harder it's going to be to get out of the situation(s), 

I've been floundering for years, and each day wasted adds to the misery of the next. I have started to fear that this is the new me. I feel like I have lost the person I used to be entirely. I'm losing the fight. I really am trying. But I am not succeeding. 

I've been to the hospital four times since September for psychiatric issues that progressed beyond my or my fiance's ability to handle them. And I really only left the last time because, upon admission, I was essentially assaulted by several staff members. (That's a story for another time and place. I'm not quite ready to reveal those details yet, as they still make me extremely uncomfortable.) It's hard to trust anyone. But I still keep trying. 

Even though I know that we don't necessarily get what we deserve, I still can't stop asking myself what I did to deserve this. Why can't I just be happy? Why does every inhalation feel like a stab to the stomach? And how in the world does anyone else live like this? And will this be forever?

And it might be. That's what terrifies me the most. I've tried almost everything, aside from ECT, which scares me. (Headaches and memory loss? No thanks.) If nothing works, the best I can hope for in life is damage control. What kind of life would that be? What kind of life is the one I am living now? 

I am almost never okay. Even less often am I happy. I don't know how to keep doing this. And the burden I place on those around me is getting to be too much for them to bear. I can't stand being around me. I can't stand how pathetic and whiny I have become. I can't imagine how my fiance feels, especially since he has his own problems to worry about. Real problems. 

I've shut myself away from most of my closest friends because socialization scares me more and more. I'm afraid to leave the house most of the time. I'm afraid of doing things by myself. I couldn't even walk to the hair salon at the bottom of the hill alone today. Things are starting to get much worse, even though they may appear to be getting better on the outside. I'm an expert at pretending to be okay. Since I can't actually be okay, I suppose it's the next best thing. I try to smile for him and show him that I love him every day. But I wonder if it will be enough. Some days, the other emotions overwhelm that expression. 

I am continuing to lose myself. I am again faced with the prospect of several days without him around, and I have no idea what to do with myself for 20 hours out of the day. And sometimes, I am paralyzed by my emotions. I am restless and apathetic at the same time. It's when I scream on the inside without being able to move all day. It's where I am headed at this very moment. 

I feel so left out. So left behind. This isn't me. This isn't my life. 

Yet, somehow, it ended up that way. I want to escape all of this more than anything. 

The other day, I felt like I had received a sign that I was on the right track as far as my plans were concerned. But those plans are ridiculous to me now. Medical school after all this time? How will I pay for it? How will I even be able to take the test and do well? How will someone like me who has nothing to show for the last four years of his life ever get accepted anywhere worthwhile? It probably isn't even possible. I'm drowning in debt as it is, so no one would give me money. It hurts to even think about this because that's pretty much what's preventing me from moving in any academic direction with my life. Am I going to be stuck getting 400 dollars a month from disability and wasting most of my life being in and out of hospitals? Who wouldn't be miserable in my position? All I want is something that gives my life meaning and purpose. And I know what that is. I know what's missing. I just can't get there. And nothing else is going to make me happy. That's the price I have to be for being as ambitious and stubborn as I have been. 

My life certainly didn't prepare me for this. I want out of this game. 

I can't remember the last time I had a decent day. It feels like all I know is pain. But I keep struggling. I keep going. And I am not proud of myself for that. I can't be. 

I'm losing my grip on everything. And I am terrified of the next time I can't handle something. Things seem to escalate each time. There is nothing more that I want right now than to run away. 

Things can't continue this way. I just don't have the strength for it anymore. My life has broken me. I really am just a shell anymore. A warm body. 

Today, I just really miss being happy. 

Finding the Beginning

It's finally quiet in the house, and I have a good twenty minutes to myself before leg day, the first since the second time a parasite decided to inflict some moderate-to-sever damage on my body and mind. I remember the first time it happened quite vividly. Month after month, I continued to lose weight, sleep more, eat more, and become more depressed until I ended up in a psychiatric ward for the first time in my life. Weeks ago, perhaps even months, more of the same started to happen, but this time the neurological symptoms were the first to appear. I became dizzy and fatigued, with numbness and tingling sensations spreading through my hands and face. I couldn't keep anything down, no matter which way you're thinking. And then came the hospital visit where the doctors were convinced that there was nothing wrong with me at all. Everyone thought I was just being dramatic. A few more weeks went by. I slept for four days straight. A few days later, I found a piece of the little bastard, called my fiance, and made my way to the emergency room at the same hospital that refused to keep looking for an answer when I assured them that something was definitely not right with me. I was out in less than two hours--less than an hour and a half even--because I was the third case the doctor had seen in 35 years. So if you ever need to go to the ER, tell them you have something really bizarre, and they'll pick up the case right away.

Anyway, I'm still not entirely okay. I'm weak and miserable. I'm fighting the worst depression and anxiety I've faced in a long time. And giving up is the only thing that makes sense to me anymore. It hurts to even be conscious most of the time. Today isn't a particularly bad day, but it still took until it was almost dark outside for me to get myself moving and out of my bedroom. I do what little on which I can focus my mind, but I know that just isn't enough. At nearly 27, my life is still going nowhere, except maybe spiraling downward, while everyone else seems to be moving on and moving up in the world. I keep thinking that this isn't what was supposed to happen. What happened to the dreams I used to have? What happened to the ambition that couldn't be contained? Have I really been defeated that many times where I can no longer see the purpose in trying to attain that command over myself again? I know I need help with even the simplest parts of getting back to "normal". And it has to be in parts. Small parts. It's hard to make people understand that you really do need things broken down that way. It's hard to explain that someone's advice or instructions don't make sense when it comes to putting them in practice. It's even harder to say admit that sometimes I don't have control, even when it seems like I do or should. It's not logical, not on the outside. It's just the way my head works. The depression is only a part of it. There is no way for me to fight the limitations my autism places on me. I can only work around them. And that's the trouble with this place. No one seems to be able to help me figure out how, and that's not something you just pick up in your day-to-day life. The world isn't built for people like me. I've run out of creative ways to survive.

It feels like I'm drowning inside my own head. Screaming, crying, having a meltdown--all these things would help to alleviate some of the frustration that's been building for months, years even. But I can't get myself to the surface to be able to do that. I sit here, stuck under water, suffocating, while I put on the best face I can for the people around me. I'm tired of seeing them get hurt. I see the looks on their faces. I see the fear that anything they say will set me off, and I see the frustration. They're more over it than I am. They see my obsession with my own misery and less-than-desirable circumstances and cannot comprehend how I can't just shift my attention to something else or force different thoughts into existence.

I had planned on going to the gym tonight. But I haven't felt this able to express myself in months, and right now, that's more important. My body has been a source of extreme discomfort lately, as I have watched it change so rapidly into something I have worked years to overcome. But without my mind, I am nothing. Unfortunately, I still feel like nothing, so what am I to do?

Maybe a little more explanation about myself is in order. I owe it to those closest to me, even though it's difficult for me to discuss.

I've searched and searched for better ways to explain what I am about to attempt. No one else's version seems to work. So I will give you mine. It may not be complete, but it's a start.

I'm one of the most socially awkward people you will ever meet. But I'm a fantastic actor, and I've learned to play my part well. I'm the one that's perfectly content to sit quietly and listen to your conversation, unless it's something I'm really interested in. Then I probably won't shut up. And I own't notice how annoyed you're getting. I won't get the hint, and I'll take everything you say at face value. If you look upset, which to me is looking anything other than happy, I just assume it's because of me. Because that's all that is there in front of me. Your past history is not concrete enough for me to see at first, so it doesn't enter my mind. I can seem cold or disinterested. I may brush you off. Most of the time when I say "I don't know", it means that I REALLY don't know. I don't know what emotions I am feeling at the time I am feeling them. They keep building up inside until something truly unbearable accumulates, and then I am even less likely to understand or know how to behave. Asking me to talk it out often makes it worse because it is an additional struggle/frustration just to try to get the words out. If I don't have it figured out in my head, how can I try to explain it to you out loud? Sometimes, my frustration builds to the point where I can no longer physically and mentally deal with it. I fail to process. It's a computer crash. There's nothing to do but restart the machine, and sometimes that isn't so pretty. As much as it sucks for everyone around me, sometimes I just need to go through it. A meltdown. Shut down. Whining about the same thing over and over again. And I applaud anyone who has the patience to deal with me. I know people want to show their concern with hugs and whatnot, but that just adds to the physical overstimulation. If you've ever felt like you just needed to scream and have everything in the room stop--put on pause like in the movies--you know what I feel like nearly all the time.

And I'm obsessive. I can't let things go. There are things from twenty years ago I can't let go. I still feel all of those emotions just as strongly as I did then. And thinking about the situation only takes me back to that exact time, and I relive the emotions, often repeatedly over days, weeks, months, and years. One little thing that means nothing to you can ruin an entire month for me.

That brings me to my most recent struggles. These are the most problematic for me. I can handle being socially awkward and isolated, as long as I have my fiance by my side. Very few people truly understand me, and I've never met someone who's wanted to try as hard as he does. But even he is wearing thin. He has a new job that's pretty demanding, and he is gone for days at a time. And I am left with myself and no one to help me with my release. I don't even trust my therapist that much yet.

Anyway, executive functioning. I say that I have problems with this, but many people probably don't know what I'm talking about, so they ignore it, like skipping the infamous whale anatomy chapter in Moby Dick. This time, I've found a pretty good summary thanks to the internet.

Executive function refers to a set of mental skills that are coordinated in the brain's frontal lobe. They work together to help a person achieve goals. The skills in question are the abilities to manage time and attention, switch focus, plan and organize, curb inappropriate speech or behavior, and integrate past experience with present action. When executive function breaks down, a person's ability to work or go to school, function independently, and maintain appropriate social relationships can be affected.

So when I tell you I really don't know how to get my shit together and move forward with something, even if it is specifically told to me what I need to do--which often is not specific enough--I really mean it. It's not that I don't try. Half or more of the trying comes in trying to mentally prepare for what needs to be done, sorting out the mess that's in my head. It's like having a bunch of papers and supplies scattered about my desk. I can't hope to do anything until all of that gets organized and put in the right place. But sometimes there just isn't anywhere to put anything, so I am stuck with all the anxiety of needing to do a task and a complete inability to get it done. Then I get stuck on not getting things done. And every time, it feels like something new. I can't use what I have learned from the times before to help me through a crisis situation. That information is just not accessible. So while you feel like you are repeating yourself, my brain acts as if it is the first time hearing any of it at all. Meanwhile, I'm still dealing with all the sensory issues and anxiety and depression. And all the friends that think I don't care at all because I can't figure out how to maintain my relationships and manage my priorities.

Why was I so much better at this before? There were a lot of clear rules for things in my past. School was pretty straightforward. I didn't have to think about coordinating so many different things at once or prioritizing. I did what needed to be done according to the deadlines set for me and stuck to the schedule laid out for me. But as things progressed, I started to lose control. Deadlines became flexible and I got left on my own, and in my entire life, I've never had any preparation for that. Being smart got me through most of my academic life, but I've learned the hard way that there is so much more to being a functioning member of society. And I'm not fully capable of doing everything yet. And people are really surprised when I say that. They think I should just be able to figure it out and get it done. But these are the people that don't see the world the way I do. I know the only way to come to a solution is to achieve mutual understanding.

I'm becoming a little more sure of what I want to do. But I truthfully don't know where to begin. I need it one step at a time. Painfully obvious steps to most people. And that doesn't exist. It's even more problematic that the simplest solutions just won't work for me. And I worry that all of this, in the end, will prevent me from being able to function in the life that I really do want. Once and if I get to where I want to be, how do I sustain that life? I haven't been able to sustain much of anything in my adult working life. How do I change that when embarking on an even more difficult path? I know this information needs to come from someone like me. A neurotypical answer won't be enough.

I want what I want, and I am finally feeling good enough to say that. I'm really over mediocrity and settling for less than what I know I can do. But the path isn't clear to me. It seems I'm not low enough functioning to not understand but I'm not high enough functioning to actually get shit done. Where do I fit? Where do I begin?

Mental Health, Part II

Although I was less than two weeks into trying to live a functional life again, I thought things were going fairly well, even with the growing pains, which tend to come with all major life changes anyway. My friend and I decided to go for a late-night leg day at the gym, which always makes me feel better, but there was something extremely important that I hadn't thought about since the first day I got my prescriptions from WPIC. There are side effects! (Now is the part where you think about how I slapped myself in the face when I became coherent again.) The side effects in question involve balance, coordination, etc. 

So I thought nothing of putting two plates on (225 pounds total) after our warm-up set, which is typically something I can rep 8-12 times, depending on what set we're talking about. It was just another day at the gym with only a moderately heavy weight on the second set of the night. But something happened on rep five. I didn't feel right--definitely not like myself. In that instant of feeling off-kilter, I nearly ended up with a much worse injury than I did. I felt the forward lean, the bar shifting, and I just let it take me down to the safety guards that were placed just a little too low, unfortunately. Imagine your spine bending into a backwards C, then getting compressed with 225 pounds of weight. Not fun. I knew something dreadful had happened the instant I let go of the bar. My knees came to the ground, and that was the last time I was able to stand without pain. That was the last time I would walk for three days, and in those three days, I thought for sure that there would be surgery, and I began thinking of the then great possibility that I would never walk again. Someone like me is not meant to be kept still. 

After the 10-hour ER visit that itself included buttloads of minimally effective narcotics--one of which made me see writing appearing across the walls a few times--the next 12 days included more narcotics, various other medications (laxatives, stool softeners, steroids, psych meds, etc.), hospitalization, and even more hospitalization at an inpatient rehabilitation facility, where I spent four hours every day doing intensive therapy. Each day, there was progress...along with a fuckload of pain. I'm home now, and there is still such a long way to go before I can ever go back to how my life used to be. I'm still terrified that I won't get to do that. 

What does this have to do with mental health? 

For me, everything. Again, I am not one to be kept still. My body is my tool of expression, whether that be through lifting weights, dancing, or playing music. My body is my ultimate project, and the gym will forever be my home--the place where I found my true self and can connect with that self on the deepest level. I am at peace when I am alone with those weights. There is pain and struggle, but it is for a purpose, and the progress that comes with that kind of hard work and dedication is doubly motivating. There are bad days, of course, but persistence always wins. Always. I am a physical being. I am so much so a physical being that when I cannot express myself in these ways, my mind unravels. 

The meltdowns and periods of "not being okay" went to the extreme this weekend. Think somewhere about level nine, in a public place. All I have been thinking about is getting back to being myself. I physically do not feel right when my body is restricted this way. I feel uncomfortable in my skin when it is not allowed to move freely. I cannot look at myself without feeling that same level of discomfort. I see my body changing before my eyes because I am not allowed to use it the way I know I need to. It's disheartening to see all of your hard work disintegrate right in front of your face. Not only was this my life, but this was my livelihood, as I was scheduled to begin transitioning back to work next Monday. Obviously, with such a severe injury and limited mobility in my lumbar spine, personal training is kind of impossible at this point. (Now is when I attempt to avoid getting sucked into thinking about all the implications this has on my future and my life's ultimate purpose, in order to avoid thinking further about career options/opportunities that I may or may not have missed.)

I am struggling, but tomorrow is my appointment with Sports Medicine at UPMC, and I am hoping they can help alleviate some of my concerns. Being active again will be on my mind until it is able to happen again. I think what makes this a little more challenging is that exercise has proven to be one of the most important factors in controlling my ability to regulate my emotions and increase my level of tolerance when it comes to overstimulation. I seem to be dealing with more than one demon at a time when my defenses are already down. I don't really know much about how to handle this, and I feel like it's taking its toll on those around me. I will hopefully be able to return to therapy on Wednesday when I return for a second intake session, but there might be some insurance barriers. Those same insurance barriers may prevent me from getting medical assistance from the state, food stamps, and the like, though I am not sure if they will inhibit my ability to obtain SSDI and SSI funds. (As you can see, I am finding it harder and harder to stay in the moment. I lose control so much more easily, and quickly.) 

This is why I want to study what I want to study, if I ever get the chance, because I know I am not the only one who benefits or can benefit to this extent from a combination of exercise and traditional psychotherapy methods. 

On Mental Health

Almost one month ago, I was taken to Western Psychiatric Institute and Clinic, ultimately for attempting to slice my own arm open, which would have occurred if not for the timely interruption made by my boyfriend. But there were other reasons that needed to happen anyway. I was non-functional in almost every aspect of my life, and my meltdowns were getting longer, scarier, and more violent, and they would leave me more drained than ever before. I had gone so long without knowing what it felt like to have a "good" day--or even a decent--one that I just didn't see the point in fighting with myself anymore.

I think one of the biggest realizations I have made in these past three weeks is that I am not fighting with myself; I am fighting for myself.

I've written every single day since coming home, and I had written eleven out of the thirteen days I spent as a patient on Floor 13. I wrote enough in those 13 days to fill almost 100 pages.

This weekend was not good. I had meltdowns each one of the last four days or so. I remember falling back into saying that none of it mattered last night. I wanted to run away and let something horrible happen to me. I wanted it to end. The meltdown would subside for a few minutes at a time as we practiced various techniques, but it would always come back just as intensely as before. Two to three hours of that is exhausting. It is understandable that I felt like a failure. (Notice how I am not saying that I believe it, but I am acknowledging that it is what I felt at the time, and that a reasonable person might come to a similar conclusion in those circumstances.)

I've had a bad couple of days, and we are still learning why. We might have made some progress today.

I had been getting on the bus, attending partial for six hours a day, getting on another bus, and then spending two hours in the gym before getting on another bus or walking/getting a ride home. Then I would end up having meltdowns or shutting down around 6:30 or 7:00 each night. The pattern became clear this afternoon when I started to notice that feeling of losing control of my mind, body, and environment. I made the choice to come home after attending the program to give myself a break from social interaction and even social presence. It's almost 7:00 now, and even though I felt the stress building and needed to lie here with my face in a pillow for about fifteen minutes, I am not anywhere near as overstimulated or overwhelmed as I have been at this time for the past week or so. My plan is to walk or get the bus to the gym at the time I had been going before, which is 8:30 or 9:00 pm. I am going to experiment with this to see if it affects my meltdowns in anyway.

Having to chart my own behaviors, even if it is just duration for now, is still very strange to me. But it keeps me honest about the progress I've been making. Having the schedule and checklist has helped me avoid the anxiety that comes with trying to decide what to do and when to do it, decreasing my overall level of anxiety so that triggering events are more manageable. The goal seems to be to create an optimally functioning version of me, however imperfect he may be, so that I have the capacity to handle my obstacles, regulate my emotions, and function as an independent adult in society. This is a long term goal in many ways. Right now, the goal is to make it there and be present each moment of the program.

The goal is to observe, describe, and understand.
Without judgment.

Having written about mindfulness for so long, I find it funny that--now confronted with working the philosophy into every facet of my being--I am having an extremely difficult time. But people are working with me, and they are also working to understand me. I haven't seen her in a few days, but I met a girl in my group that also has Asperger's, though she was only very recently diagnosed. Knowing that and being able to talk with her about things that no one else in the room really understood helped me feel much more comfortable, even on days when she wasn't there. I just needed that initial welcoming feeling, and it didn't come from the typical gestures offered by our society. It came from simply knowing there was someone else like me going through the same thing, sitting right next to me.

One important thing I have finally stopped is allowing myself to write when I am in a cycle of negative thoughts. I have learned to put the pen down or close the computer. I come back to writing when I am in a space that is more neutral. Writing down negative, irrational, or catastrophising thoughts only serves to make them more concrete. It strengthens them, and I no longer desire to give strength to the negativity by which I have sworn for so many years. That doesn't mean I'm doing that well with it at the moment, but I am working on it.

I am working. And it really is like working every minute of the day. But hopefully, in time, it'll be like riding a bike, and I will never have to revisit those dark moments as the person I was when I lived them.

I want things in life, though I don't know how to get them. One of the hardest things for me to do is be 100 percent present. My brain runs in so many different directions at the same time, and this is hardly something I can control. I don't have one train of thought. I have at least seven, it seems. Sometimes it feels as if I am watching seven TVs in my head and still trying to pay attention to the world around me. Even if one of those TVs can be turned off, it's not like I can access them all at the same time. I feel like it'd be like playing Wac-a-Mole. But maybe there are skills I have not learned yet. Maybe this is something I actually can handle. (Again, as you can see, staying in the present is hard.)

My boyfriend has been helping me identify patterns, try new distress tolerance/distraction techniques, and he has even been writing quite detailed descriptions of my meltdowns when they do occur. That last one gets me every time. It's one thing to see it written about a seven-year-old boy who can't speak. It's entirely different to see that those words are referring to YOU. I've just never been able to put myself into the other person's shoes enough to actually visualize how my behavior appears to others. Having a partner so dedicated to helping you be the best you can be is absolutely incredible. I would not be able to do this without him.

I am beginning to be more comfortable asserting myself when I need something, though this is by no means predictable. While I sometimes feel that I am moving backwards, I know that adjusting to so many new things--especially new ways of thinking and approaching situations--will cause things to get worse before they get better in many ways. I am accepting of this. Change can be painful, and pain is not necessarily good or bad. Pain is just pain.

Nothing worth having is ever easy. And my life must be worth having if I am working this damn hard to make sure that it can be better.

Quiet Time

Today I've oscillated between being full of energy and drive and being so completely engulfed in my own anxiety/misery that my brain decided being asleep for 17+ hours was a more appealing option than staying awake and resolving whatever issues it's been having. In the last several months, I've noticed that I have been falling more quickly from a generally positive state to a rather miserable one, and the fall has been getting harder and harder to resist. I'm running out of energy to deal with this, all the while still fighting increasingly debilitating anxiety and the prospect of maybe getting one meal a day for an indefinite period of time.

My brain is all over the place anymore. I can't finish anything I start, and sometimes the anxiety I feel about having to do something completely overwhelms me to the point where I don't even begin whatever it was I had planned to do. Big or small, it seems that any task is enough to roll this snowball downhill, and it starts the instant I open my eyes every morning and doesn't stop until I pass out from exhaustion, long after lying down to attempt sleep.

Mere annoyances have become triggers, and triggers have become automatic switches that send me from zero to meltdown in about as much time as it took you to read this sentence.

I've more or less lost whatever it was in college that kept me so focused and able to be so productive and functional. Granted, I wasn't the best at coping then either, but I thought I had gotten past all of this. I only know part of the problem, and I know nothing of the solution. My brain is already several steps ahead, and I really can't trick it into doing anything once it gets going in a certain direction. I don't know how to bring myself back. Most of the time, it seems completely illogical that any of these skills will work for me--since I know how they work or what the ultimate aim is--so I get more upset when someone tells me what to do to calm myself down, refocus, etc. I just don't work that way, and I need to find things that really DO help. Maybe some of the issue is that things that help other people actually make it worse for me, or they make it more likely that I will exhibit some sort of behavior or have an outburst in the future. I've never really had a good chance to analyze myself because once I am removed from the situation, the feelings get locked away.
Every now and then, I am able to access that information and translate into words, often poetically, and I gain a little more insight into the puzzle of how this lump of cells in my head works. Unfortunately, that little bit just isn't enough most of the time.

I was able to get a decent workout tonight, take a nice long walk home, and sit here for a little bit before the noise came back into the picture. I feel close to the words I'm writing, and the silence I've had has been helpful. My head feels a little less like a whirlwind, and I don't feel like I have eight TV sets to watch at once in my head while trying to navigate my way through the day. (Maybe just two right now.)

So it's clear that I'm depressed and that I have been for some time. It's also becoming more clear that it may not be depression alone, which would explain why medication hasn't ever helped that much. Severe anxiety, ADHD, bipolar depression, and the big one, of course. It's not surprising, but I always thought they were all part of the same thing. But now I realize that the reason I have never really been completely okay is that, at any given time, I am dealing with one or more of these things. Sometimes, I'm just fucking anxious. And sometimes, I just can't focus. And I'm talking can't focus long enough to finish brushing my teeth or get something out of the fridge, in addition to the more important tasks of everyday life.

I am unable to do this on my own, and I don't know where to start. And even if you told me, I probably wouldn't get to doing it anyway, which has become quite a problem for me.

The noise is coming back, and my heart is starting to race again. No reason, really. But I guess that means I'm done for now.

No Way Out

I am getting very tired of having more bad days than good. I'm also just tired. I haven't been able to eat even half of what I am supposed to on a daily basis, partly from lack of appetite and partly from not having food. I feel out of it all the time, and I sleep a good 16 hours a day at least. I've thought about doing some pretty stupid things, none of which are worth the time to repeat here. I have been anxious and in meltdown mode for a week straight. Anything and everything can set me off, and I don't like the person I become when that happens. Nothing is working anymore. I may have a job again in a few months if I can figure out how to be a normal person. I'm still not sure what "taking a break" means. I'm fired but not fired? It's not as if it makes much of a difference. My last paycheck wasn't even for 100 dollars.

We are apparently going to a food bank this week.
I almost started drinking maple syrup this evening.

I was told that there are some people at the DoD who are impressed with my resume. But I've been told that before, so I'm not expecting much to come out of it. Even if it did, given my history, I would probably fail at that too. Whatever it is.

I've already learned that I am just not capable of doing anything I have ever wanted to do, which is probably why no one wants to give me the chance. Maybe they all see something I haven't been able to see until now.

A normal person would take some menial job and just deal with it. But we already know what happens to me when I have to work in a customer service environment. I'd be okay with it if I could spend less than three hours trying to get myself out of bed because I am freaking out about whether I need to shower or eat first.

I feel like everything in my life is getting really out of control.
I really don't understand how this always happens or what I can do.

Am I just not capable of doing this? Of living and functioning like everyone else? Of doing what I need to do and being happy? I am starting to believe it more and more.

There really is no way out. And I don't want to live with that.

Not Braining Well

I am tired. I am in pain, which is my own fault because I thought I could definitely get that 5th rep on the highest weight I've ever incline benched. Well, I did. But in the process, I twinged something, and now it's difficult to rise from a supine position and turn my head. (Don't worry. This has happened before and has never really lasted more than a day and a half. It just sucks for right now.) But I am also stressed, and that doesn't make the pain easier to deal with, and that in turn makes me even more stressed.

I don't know why I thought it would be a brilliant idea to have two jobs. Though I am supposed to be working about 45 hours a week, it has turned into more like 60 since not every hour I spend at the gym is paid. Only if I do some tidying up on the floor or perform assessments/free workouts for the people that happen to show up that day do I get paid when I am not actively training someone. Since I am relatively new, my client list is kind of small, so you can imagine how most of my day goes. My exhaustion is making me less effective at both jobs, which is also making me miserable because I am the product of an old-fashioned Eastern European upbringing (think of something similar to Jewish moms if you don't understand the cultural reference).

I'm depressed about not getting anywhere with my life, and it is even more depressing to know that my boyfriend is fighting the same thing that I am, though he is a few years older. I wonder if we will ever be able to crawl out of this hole. Neither one of us wants to believe that this is as good as it gets. I am starting to discover that I may not be able to stay in Pittsburgh if I want to keep moving forward in my life. I came here because the opportunity was better. I am getting a lot of the things I need out of life, but I am also fucking up a lot. I don't like always having to worry about money. I don't like not being able to buy the kind of food I want or not being able to get the new shoes that I desperately need.

There are so many things that still make me happy, but I am constantly fighting off crippling anxiety, and my inability to process emotions, situations, and make decisions in a typical timeframe is causing me to shut down more often. I have near-meltdown experiences almost every day. I'm much better at fighting them off than I used to be, but that is both a blessing and a curse. It just means that there is more stored up for next time.

I feel like I am having a hot flash.

I want to know what it feels like to breathe without feeling like there is a rock in my chest. It's constant. It's been nearly constant my whole life, and it's not okay. But I do hate being on medication because it fucks with my body in so many other ways.

I can't figure shit out when all this is happening around me.
Even though I love what I do and it has saved my ass financially more than a few times already, I am looking forward to having the next few weekends off.

Time to cry. For no reason really.

Ponderings from Facebook

From what I see, if you have EVER defaulted on student loans in the past, you are pretty much ineligible to receive loans for graduate school. So, unless I get into a PhD program that is funded, I will never be able to do what I want to do. I was considering applying to Master's programs as well, thinking that further training might make me a more competitive candidate for the programs of my choice in the future, but if I cannot pay for them, then there really isn't a point to it. I love that I'm basically fucked forever, and that there is absolutely no way back from this, unless I can somehow get a job in a research lab, which--given how that has gone over the last 3 years--also seems like it's never going to happen. 

I'm dealing with all of this surprisingly well, probably because I still have some hope that the next letter I receive will be a positive one. But I do worry about what happens if it is not. Because I was unable to immediately get a job out of college--because I decided not to jump into school without having experienced life outside of academia--I have been forced into a situation where I am living with my parents at age 25, am struggling to save every penny I can, am pretty much shunned by anyone hiring in my field due to the length of time I have not been working in said field, am constantly accruing more and more debt as many of my loans remain unpaid, and am now faced with the very likely possibility that there is no future for me in any scientific field. I feel that I have done everything that I possibly could have done, and the sad part about this whole thing is that, even if I were to receive a call asking me to start a position next week--a position which would not be local--I would never be able to afford to make the move to accept it. Is it really true that there is no way out?

I definitely sound a bit more dramatic than I intend at this moment, but I find it hard to believe that I will take it well if I find out that this is the end of this journey for me. Because this is what I want to do more than anything else, I do not see another path to happiness. I will always want this. How would I live with that? This is not the world in which I expected to find myself after years of dedication, hard work, and sacrifice. It is enough to make me wonder why I bothered with any of it at all, when I am no better off than those who work part-time at a fast-food chain. I don't want to resign myself to living like this forever--always looking back, always longing for that green light at the end of the dock, always feeling bitter, always feeling useless, purposeless, and wasted. Still, I remain calm--a testament to the personal work I have been putting in since graduating from a university that promised me so much more out of life--but the feelings are still there. I know I am not alone, but that just makes it all the more depressing.

I want to thank the friends who have been there for me and have given me the much needed time to myself as I have struggled with understanding the full impact of this the past couple of days. I keep telling myself that things will be okay, and they will. But I am not interested in "just okay". I never have been, and I never will be--because I really am one obsessive son of a bitch. It makes me good at what I do. I have never given up when it counted, but this time, I might have to, and since a good percentage of my definition of myself comes from the fact that I am doggedly persistent--sometimes to a fault--I feel like I would be living life as a different person, a person somehow less than the person I am now. 

And this is where I am stuck.

Cell phone post

This probably isn't the best idea. I just got finished writing a few pages by hand, and of course, it made things worse. I only ever write about the same things when I feel this way, which also makes me feel like my writing is suffering.

I really do feel like I am losing it. I'm a capacitor. And I can't hold any more energy. I'm overloading, and I need an outlet. But I need enough structure to stabilize myself before I can release this energy in any way that would be productive. 

For the last several weeks, I have been holding it all in. I snapped once or twice, but I haven't been able to really get anything out otherwise. I hold myself together because I fear the response I will get, I fear upsetting others, and I fear that, one of these times, I just won't come back. 

I just want someone to hold me in a way that makes me feel better. But anyone touching me at this point is jarring. Things are getting worse. And I need to stop lying to myself about it. 

I'm making myself sick with all of this. 

I need things to stop. Or slow down. I can't keep up.

I felt like I was really getting somewhere at the start of Christmas break or maybe halfway through. I am going out of town to visit a friend this weekend, and I don't know if I have the energy for that. Almost nothing in my life is restorative. Time alone doesn't exist. Control doesn't exist. I am trapped just as much as my brother. 

I cannot leave when I want. I have almost nothing to my name. I feel isolated. And right about now, I feel hopeless. But I'm here. And I guess that's what matters to everyone. Not how I feel or that I am losing my ability to function independently. Just that I am here. 

I love my family more than anyone will ever know. It will make it that much harder to leave. I would love to be able to spend time with them, but it's not even quality time at this point because I spend so much of my free time running away, hiding in my room, hoping to recharge at least a little. But I only get enough to just keep the power on. 

I love my family. But this is going to kill me. And I don't know what to do. Or maybe I'm just making excuses because I don't have a good reason for this behavior. Or these feelings. 

I really, really, REALLY don't want to have to have these fights with myself every minute of every day. The last two days of work have been seven hour battles with myself, on top of having to deal with a room full of severely autistic children. 

I just want to be calm. Anxiety isn't quite the word anymore. I feel like it is just pain. Anxiety, depression, fear, anger, etc. It's all the same at this point. And it's always there. I wake up to it, shower with it, get dressed with it, work with it, and fall asleep with it, when I can. Pass out with it might be more accurate. 

I am shaking trying to hold in all of this nonsense. My head is pounding. My stomach hates me. I feel so much trying to escape. I feel weak. Off-balance. Dizzy. 

And I feel like this is all I do anymore.